CHAPTER 282: OMEN

Omen

Lansius

The sun was out, casting its light over the walled city and the vast grassland around it. Only a month ago, this had been a battlefield, but the scars of war had already vanished. No mangled bodies, broken arms, or churned earth remained. The grass grew lush and green from the days of drizzle, as though the land itself had chosen to forget.

It was no miracle of nature. Professional undertakers, an army of paid volunteers, and hundreds of captured rebels had labored to scour the field. First, the dead nobles were set aside to be identified, their armor and belongings stripped as proof of guilt in the rebellion. Then the volunteers searched for spoils. Among shattered spears and splintered shields, they found helmets, ringmail, swords, knives, boots, gambesons, or even tunics worth keeping. Wagon after wagon was filled, enough to equip an army of thousands.

The rest, the worthless gear and the nameless dead, were consigned to five mass graves dug where the fighting had been fiercest and the bodies lay thickest. By Lansius’ order, there would be no mounds, no markers, no cemetery. To this end, captured rebels were forced to dig deep. It was brutal work, but necessary. Once the bodies were dragged to the pits, they were burned, and only then were the remains buried. It lessened the burden on the soil and, in his mind, cleansed the land.

Lansius had told his council that he did not wish Canardia to be surrounded by five new cemeteries that might give it a haunted air. In a land of magic and fell beasts, he feared there might be necromancy. Although his scribes assured him such arts were unknown, he preferred to be certain.

Now, as he toured the area by carriage under heavy escort, he saw that the mass burial sites bore no trace. The land was leveled flat, carpeted in a sea of fresh grass, as if no battle had ever been fought.

He drew a deep breath as his eyes fell upon the plains beside the wooden arena. More than ten thousand had died in that field alone.

Though he permitted no mounds or cemeteries for the rebels, he would not let his men’s heroics and victories pass without remembrance. For that reason, it was decided that the arena’s entrance would be rebuilt in stone and marble. Statues of the two Special Arms Regiment who had given their lives would be set on either side of the new gates. The figures would greet every spectator who passed within, a lasting commemoration of their bravery and sacrifice in the One Day Rebellion that had enabled the House’s great victories.

As his convoy halted at the arena’s entrance, Lansius saw the work underway. Dozens of artisans, masons, and laborers sweated at their tasks. Some chiseled marble, others cut stone blocks, while carpenters and scaffolders shouted orders to keep the labor moving.

"My Lord," the workers and artisans greeted as Lansius stepped down from the carriage.

"Carry on," he said, breathing in the morning air. For a long while he stood watching the sculptors shape the marble with mallet and chisel, while his guards and entourage kept watch.

As was the custom, the craftsmen began their work not long after first light, when the sun was not yet hot. Nobody wanted to toil beneath the midday sun.

The men were free to make their own arrangements as they saw fit, but they could be trusted to manage themselves because Lansius, through his Office of Works, did not pay them or their guilds by the hour but on commission.

While he had mostly yielded the details to his Office of Works, he made it clear that he wanted the faces portrayed as true as possible. To achieve this, death masks had been taken from the fallen SAR members before they were interred at the heart of the arena beside the other fallen of his House. They were laid to rest on an island at the center of the racetrack, their tomb forever watching over the course where the horses would thunder past.

After a few long moments observing the work and its progress, Lansius entered the arena. The place was now under repair, though with no set date for completion. He crossed the dirt racetrack and made his way to the island.

It was not his first time there. On his previous visit, it had been a simple burial. Now he saw it had been tidied, the ground covered in marble, and at the center stood a raised platform where the names of the fallen were inscribed.

He approached and laid wreaths of flowers at the foot of the platform. For now, it was still largely unadorned, but in time it would be crowned with an obelisk to serve as a monument. He did not know why, but he felt the shape was fitting. His craftsmen and council had agreed, for another statue within the arena seemed out of place.

The morning sun poured over the island, casting warm golden light across the marble.

Lansius looked to his left and right and was glad it had turned out well. He did not want tombstones but a monument for his brave men.

Facing the raised platform, he sat upon the white marble floor and poured good wine onto the stone where his men now rested. Many of them he had known since the beginning of his campaign in Lowlandia.

They were rough men, once thugs and raiders who had wished him dead, but he had gained their trust and loyalty.

“You have not even seen my firstborn," he said, tasting the wine himself as he recalled their faces and the banter once shared.

The first name inscribed was that of their leader. He had been one of two brothers: the elder had perished in the siege of Korelia, and now the younger had followed. Lansius remembered him most clearly as the one who had long pestered every smith they encountered, always demanding a sharper blade. The second was an elder among them, known to never sleep, so all had called him the sleepless swordsman. A third had been a failed thief turned scout, forever scratching at dry skin and constantly seeking ointments. Lansius had once ordered lotion made for him, and he still remembered the man’s gratitude when his skin improved. 𝘙ἈΝòʙЁṦ

Others, too, had their quirks and antics that now stirred merry memories. One on the list bore a crooked haircut, the result of an accident by a friend, and he had decided to keep it after the others said it made him look more handsome.

Another, no older than Sterling and once wounded, had been elated to eat a duck egg, but soon after a great abscess grew on him. It turned out he was allergic, and the sickness worsened his recovery.

"Three short years," Lansius lamented. "You men go away too soon," he said with pain, pouring the last of his wine onto the marble.

It dawned on him that of the original four hundred who had followed him on his Lowlandian campaign, around half were dead, crippled, retired, or had quit. Among them were his brave guards who had faced the half-breed in Umberland and the assassins in Korelia. If the conflict continued, soon none would be left.

The weight of mortality troubled Lansius, but he pushed it away.

In war, men died. But his men died for a cause.

Lansius took two wooden dice and set them on the marble. He gave a short snort at the thought, imagining how his men would groan at it from the afterlife. He had always pushed them against gambling, yet in death, he urged them to play.

He rose and poured the last of his flagon over the dice and the marble. "Next time, I will bring my son to visit. May you have a great hunt in the afterlife with the Ancients. Pray for us who still live. Pray for peace."

He started to leave, but paused and looked back. "Do not worry about your families. They are part of the Shogunate. They will be cared for."

With a steadier heart, Lansius returned to his carriage. His duty awaited.

...

The carriage made its way back toward the castle by the longer route, avoiding the city and the pilgrims waiting for Lansius. He shuddered every time he thought of them and this cult of personality. While Audrey and the council believed it was only natural, he knew it could backfire if left unchecked. Yet he had no answer. He did not want to be idolized. Respected, yes. But worshipped like a saint?

It would be a slippery slope to deification…

He frowned.

Should I just take it as the Romans did?

The Roman emperors had assumed the role of Pontifex Maximus, the chief priests, the human bridge between their people and the gods. But Lansius knew such a course would be like playing with fire. In matters of faith, once begun, there was no turning back.

Exhaling sharply as the carriage rocked gently, cushioned by the latest iteration of spring and dampener design, Lansius turned to Carla and Claire, who rode with him. "Ladies, what is the report for today?"

The two were ready to deliver what they had studied before setting out.

"The bailiff chief reports the families of the condemned have reached the nomad city, Ordu Khan," Carla, the recently returned squire, reported first.

Claire, the blonde young mage, followed with, "The Office of Works reports they have mapped the site for the new northwest district and will soon begin the work."

Lansius turned to Carla. "Did they arrive safely?"

"Despite precautions and canvas-covered carts, nine seniors succumbed to their old illnesses," Carla answered.

Lansius sighed softly and mulled, recalling his own experience crossing the great plains. "Send dispatch to the bailiff chief," he said, and Claire pulled out his stylus and wax tablet.

"In light of the casualties among the exiles, and knowing the hardship of crossing the Great Plains of Lowlandia, any family with elders may remain and begin their life in exile at Ordu Khan, unless they choose to proceed to their destination."

Claire finished writing with the wooden stylus and looked up toward Lansius.

"What about the new district?" Lansius asked.

"They will begin the initial digging work with the prisoners," she replied.

Lansius gave a slow nod of agreement and turned his gaze to the window. The work to expand Canardia for the Shogunate had begun. Now they would have two cities, Korelia and Canardia, as their administrative centers. He imagined that in the future the arrangement would be to remain in Canardia through spring, summer, and fall, and then return to Korelia after harvest to winter there.

When he and Audrey returned to Korelia, he would leave a Shogunate lord here in rotation. This year, should the need arise, Lord Robert could assume the mantle, for he was already here and had brought his family with him.

Lansius had not planned for this, but with the Lion of Lowlandia, supported by Sir Michael and Lady Astrid, and several more key figures like Sir Omin, he felt Canardia would be in good hands. The only problem was the monastery.

"How is Sir Omin?" he asked the two of them.

"Sir Omin is preparing the carts and supplies as we speak," Carla replied.

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"No resistance from the commoners?"

"No, My Lord," Carla answered confidently, then added, "But you might need to consult with the Orange Skalds directly."

Lansius nodded. In truth, he had already consulted with Francisca, his spymaster and bodyguard, who now sat beside the coachman. From her, he had learned that the Midlandians were warming up to him. Despite his near defeat that had almost ended in a last stand, many regarded the rebellion as his victory. It gave him more credence in his rule, enough that now the people, through fear or genuine support, voiced no objection or resistance to the ongoing siege of the monastery.

This outcome was likely tied to his earlier instruction to the Orange Skalds not to suppress the losses or hide the truth, but to reveal the battle results in full. Like painters, Lansius had taught them to lay down the black first on the canvas, using death and defeat as the backdrop, before striking it with the white and gold of his army’s achievements.

And just as in painting, the darkness made the light shine brighter.

Thus, instead of stifling gossip, his agents were the first to speak of the rebellion and openly confirm its cost. In the absence of denial, they were able to shape how the story was framed. Rather than letting rumor or panic set the tone, they established frankness and ensured the House kept its voice of authority. This reduced the shock of bad news and, in time, garnered trust and respect.

And once the populace had accepted the harsh truth, Lansius would strike them with the whole of it, so that they were even relieved or pleasantly surprised, to learn the reality was better than they had feared.

This might even have affected the guilds, as both the Mage Guild and the Hunter Guild had shown willingness to aid against the rebellion. Lansius was not blind; he knew it was also born of rivalry. The two were eager to see the younger Saint Order destroyed. To that end, the two guilds promised to send Mages and Hunters to aid him against the monastery.

Lansius had discussed it with his council, but nobody objected. They all knew the monastery might conceal a secret and that more specialized personnel, like mages and hunters, could be needed.

That line of thought reminded Lansius that he now wore a newer gemstone, one confiscated from the nobles. Ingrid had told him it carried the same benefits as his previous one: healing and strength, but with the added gift of night sight. Valerie, the Frenchwoman and his only true confidant, had confirmed it. They had tested its function on Sterling. After several trials and a final recharge by Ingrid, they were confident enough to entrust it to him.

Never before had he imagined owning a magical item, and now he held something this rare. Valerie told him that on Sterling, it let him fight longer, and in theory, it should heal greater wounds, but she advised him not to gamble his life on it. It was a last-resort item.

His House now had four gemstones of strength. Lansius wore the best one. Francisca carried the lesser piece they had won in Cascasonne. He had offered the previous one he had used to Audrey, but it proved nearly useless for a mage. Still, she kept it, and he felt it was justified.

The last one was currently unassigned, but Lansius had some ideas. He was a believer in min-maxing, and naturally, there were only a few other suitable candidates. With that in mind, the carriage and escort entered the castle through the western gate, avoiding the pilgrims who always crowded to see him.

While he felt it was ungentlemanly, he was still uncertain what to do with them. Soon he would need to give his answer, but for now, without a plan, he feared he would only make it worse.

"Claire," he called.

"Yes, My Lord?" she answered lightly. Though almost identical to Cecile, the little sister carried a more carefree manner despite being a trained mage.

"Remind me to meet with Valerie to discuss the pilgrims."

The four-horse carriage approached the drawbridge, which the advance horsemen had already cleared so it could pass unbothered. A crowd had gathered on either side of the road. Farmers in rough tunics, women with baskets still on their hips, and children craned their necks for a glimpse. Some took their hats off and bowed, while others lowered their heads as the carriage passed. From the size of the escort and the sight of Francisca riding with the carriage, they knew who was inside.

***

Southern Midlandia

As if untouched by the rebellion, Canardia once again celebrated new inventions. This time it was a reclining seat with a simple spring mechanism that quickly sparked curiosity. It was considered luxury furniture, yet the market reacted favorably, and crowds gathered to see it. Imitations soon spread, though of lesser quality. The Lord did not seem to mind, telling his officials that he welcomed competition if it led to even better products. And there were rumors of something greater still, an invention said to be useful for every household, not just the rich with deep purses.

Along the stream, an old waterwheel, long idle, had been revitalized under the Lord's instruction. Through shafts and gears, it drove several hollowed barrels set nearby, each turning with the current’s power. Two sets of gears were built into the system to raise the rotation to a much higher speed. The design was not yet finished, but it had already drawn considerable attention. Crowds of passersby gathered daily to watch it take shape.

Beside it stood a permanent open building with several hearths and chimneys, and large cauldrons were being delivered there. This only encouraged wild speculation, ranging from the serious to the humorous, such as it being a new communal kitchen.

The workers and guildsmen involved were tight-lipped. They respected the Lord as the inventor and left it to him to unveil the device. All they would say was that, if it worked as intended, it would ease the burden of countless households for only a small fee. Thus, the people continued to speculate eagerly, each day offering new guesses about what use the barrels and cauldrons might serve.

Despite all the talk, the true work of invention was unfolding out of sight.

In the neighboring city, the Lord had begun modifying a finery forge and had ordered the construction of another, along with several new beehive ovens.

The Office of Works had identified the suppliers and mines that held the bituminous coal sought by the Lord and his craftsmen. Without delay, they offered new contracts to secure the site and planned its expansion. Although the mine was still shallow and not yet extensively dug, the Lord already saw the need for rudimentary safeguards against sickness. Work shifts were set with limited hours, cloth masks of fine linen were encouraged to keep out the worst of the dust, and cleaning stations were provided so the men would not rest or linger covered in black powder.

These measures were meant to prevent the ailments the Lord believed would come once the operation expanded and mining was driven deeper.

Among those in the know, there was also talk of limiting a man’s service in the mine to only a few years. Because of this, many judged it a fitting place for captured rebels or prisoners, though no final decision had yet been made.

To the guilds connected with ironwork, the Lord’s sudden interest in coal and his heavy investment were intriguing. They sent their best men to observe and to pry, trying to learn as much as they dared, for he was not a man they could afford to offend.

Still, for all their efforts, they had yet to uncover his true intention.

"All that bribery and effort just to secure this?" one remarked, puzzled, as he held up a lump of ordinary-looking coal their member had smuggled from the Lord's supplier.

Nine men gathered in the hall, each wearing a look of curiosity and concern as they inspected the black lump one by one.

"Have you tested it?" another asked the man who had brought it.

"We have," he confirmed, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "It burns dirty."

"So it's just common coal," another muttered.

Some exchanged uneasy glances, others gave weary shrugs, while a few stroked their chins, trying to make sense of it.

To the extent of their knowledge, coal was a poor fuel for making good iron. Though it burned hotter and longer, they had always known it carried impurities, chiefly sulfur, which weakened the metal. Iron smelted with charcoal, as was the tradition, was vastly superior to anything made with coal.

"Could it be that the Lord knows a way to use coal to make good iron?" one ventured boldly, as the meeting went nowhere.

His words drew the attention of many. While several mulled over the question, another, a man with a burn scar on his chin, spoke. "It would be a great deal if it were the case."

Intrigued, a younger member asked, "Please explain more about it, good meister."

"Coal burns better and it's also stronger than charcoal," the scarred man began. "For a quarter cartload of charcoal, you would need only a sack of coal to achieve the same heat and duration."

"That means..." the junior began to understand.

"If coal could work, it would undoubtedly make large-scale ironmaking possible," the elder among them said from his seat. "Before, every layer of ore had to be blanketed under a thick layer of charcoal. Layer upon layer, the stack swelled until the furnace grew too tall to be practical. If somehow he could use coal, then each layer could be thinner, and more ore could be smelted in a single process."

Until now, they had been constrained by how much charcoal each layer consumed. To reach the necessary temperature, they needed vast amounts of charcoal, which took up too much space inside the furnace. And it could only be built so high before the furnace became unstable and dangerous for men to operate. Coal could change that. With denser fuel and thinner layers, a greater weight of ore could be smelted in a single run.

"There is also another reason," the man with the scar added. "As you all know, charcoal crumbles and turns to ash under a heavy burden of ore, so the layers collapse. Coal, however, holds its shape even under heat. Long ago, when I was still an apprentice, I tried it and found gaps between the lumps. Air could pass through, so the bellows worked better."

"Hotter furnace and more air means better iron," one commented.

"Still, we know it will not work," an elder guest from another guild said in a gruff voice. "This lump has bad properties and clings to iron like a plague. Somebody should tell the Lord he is wasting his time."

The guild members were divided. Some agreed it was a useless endeavor. All their lives, they had known coal by its other name, poor man’s firewood. Even the better kinds burned dirty, belching heavy smoke and leaving soot on walls and clothing. The unfortunate used it only in the harshest winters, and rarely for cooking, for it even spoiled the taste of food.

Not even village blacksmiths dared to use it. They had found that even in tempering, coal weakened the metal and could ruin it altogether, leaving the iron brittle.

With a soft cough, the guild leader who had called the meeting finally broke his silence. After drawing everyone’s attention, the man in his mid-fifties inhaled deeply and said, "Truly, I think there is little reason to panic." He let his gaze travel across each of his guild members and the guest. "It is not as if we stand on the opposite side. We are the Lord’s subjects, are we not?"

The hall muttered and nodded in agreement at the notion.

"The Lord has shown himself to be a unique man. He has proven a good inventor of new things, yet he does so with such assurance and certainty that I am inclined to think it is not invention at all. It is as if he merely makes what he already knows."

Frowns darkened some faces, others looked uncertain, but a few sharpened their gaze, as though sharing the same suspicion.

"But that means the coal..." the elder guest stopped abruptly, overwhelmed by the possibilities.

"It's only a suspicion at this point, but I'm willing to bet a few gold coins from my purse that the Lord is onto something with this coal. As plain and ordinary as it seems, he knows properties of it that we do not."

"Then," the young man remarked, "is he going to make iron without us? Is he going to put our guild out of business?"

The guild leader chuckled at the grim remark. "No." He shook his head. "As I said before, the Lord is unique. Others who possessed such knowledge would undoubtedly keep it secret and dominate the market, pushing every competitor out of business. But he is different..."

"How so?" the scarred man asked.

"Just as he did with the new bed, the cart and carriage suspension, and even the coveted Hair Elixir and Medicated Soap, the Lord never sought to keep his secrets for long. On the contrary, he seemed content to let others replicate them, securing only a small profit for himself."

"It has intrigued me for a long while. Why does he do that? To keep the price low? Do we have a generous Lord?" the elder said in mockery, knowing well the Black Lord was anything but a paragon of kindness.

"But why?" the elder guest asked the hall. "Does he lack the talent for trade?"

The words struck them hard. They were craftsmen, but also merchants at heart, and the thought of a man unmoved by profit unsettled them.

"On the contrary," the guild leader said unexpectedly. "I believe he does it for his own benefit."

The elder guest turned to him and asked politely, "Care to explain, Meister Guild Leader?"

Their eyes met, and the guild leader ventured, "What if, just like the Hair Elixir or the medicated soap, even the secret of this coal is nothing to him?"

Almost everyone looked visibly distraught, though a few remained expressionless.

"You mean the new knowledge of making good iron means nothing to him?" the elder guest pressed, doubt heavy in his voice.

"It is disheartening, but it may be so. Perhaps to him, what we do is already outdated."

There were gasps in the hall.

"Guild master, surely you do not believe what those pilgrims are saying?" another member asked, trying to make light of it.

Instead, his words left the hall uneasy. Some of the population had already begun to whisper that the Lord was a chosen man, blessed by the Ancients. His string of victories had been nothing short of wonder, hard to disprove, and now the breadth of his knowledge unsettled even those who considered themselves masters of their craft.

After a long pause, the guild master replied, "Whatever else it may be, we can all agree the Lord wants his subjects to produce better goods. The bed, which lets his ally rest more easily. The hair elixir and soap, which fight disease and lice. All of it improves the lives of his people."

"His new cart suspension lets people and horses travel better," the scarred man added.

"And what will this do to us, then?" the younger member asked.

The guild leader smiled. "I am confident he will soon call on us to take part in his designs."

"How can you be so sure?" the elder among them was quick to respond.

"Remember his great order to the armorers last summer?" Seeing them nod, he went on, "The Lord requires a vast supply of better armor and sharper swords, does he not? And who will he call on to improve iron production?"

"It will be us," several said at once, and their faces lit with anticipation. The mood in the hall shifted at once.

"With such a great order, even with new knowledge of iron smelting, he cannot rely only on his chosen ironmaking guild. Soon he will share that knowledge with us."

"That easy?" the elder guest blurted out. "For no profit to his House?"

"His goal lies elsewhere," the scarred man commented.

Meanwhile, the guild master said, "Ask the alchemists and apothecaries who now labor over the soap and elixir. They would confirm to you that profit has never been better."

The hall began to nod in earnest, agreeing with their Guild Master’s words. With calmer minds, they eagerly looked forward to working with the ruling Lord, and this time with a deeper respect for his craft and knowledge. Naturally, if the secret of making good iron with coal proved true, they had little choice but to share what the pilgrims believed about the Lord.

The significance was not lost on them, craftsmen.

In a time when the Imperium was gone came a blessed noble, bearing the secrets of the Dwarves. To them, it could only be a sign from the Ancients. Some shuddered, sensing it was no mere chance that the Imperium had set like the sun to give rise to the dawn of a fated age.

***